Song of the Brook
by DirewolfGavin
Summary: A/U. Sandor survives Cleganebowl, with a little help.
1. Chapter 1

He didn't really remember the fall. Someone once said "When the fall's all that's left, it's all that matters."

Well, it mattered a great deal right now. When he awoke, it felt like every single bone in his body was broken, but he first started to work his hands, then feet, then arms and legs. His body screamed in protest as he stood up, slipping and sliding on what was left of his brother. He only knew one thing:

Get. Out.

Get. Out!

He scrambled out of the flames, choking on the acrid smoke and the heat that lapped at him. His boots skidded upon the cobblestones, the roar of buildings crumbling before him. He limped and collapsed, limped a few more yards and then fell again.

A hand. A strong one. A raspy, soft voice guiding him. Helping him to safety.

"I got you, son. Here, we're almost safe, just… Lean on me. Oof, too much leaning, TOO MUCH LEANING!"

Sandor tried to open his eyes but his brother had taken care of one and the heat and seared the other one closed. Suddenly, his boots were upon wood… Water splashing could be heard amongst the chaos. The hands let him go and he was immediately dunked beneath the cool water. It felt good on his body, in his lungs, helping to clear away the dust in his mind too.

The hands pulled him back up and guided him back to the safety of the shallows.

"Stay here, son." The voice commanded. "Stay right here, and I'll be back to get you."

Sandor could only nod as the screams of the terrified villagers echoed around him. If this was hell, why was there a good person here helping him? He must have survived, against all odds, and now there was a man here guiding him to safety.

He put his head below the water again, wiping his eyes of the dust, the blood, and the gravel. Finally, he resurfaced and blinked hard. Both eyes were blurred, but he could see a bit in each, just colors. He continued to rinse out his eyes until the throbbing went away, and then he wished he hadn't.

King's Landing was no more. It was hell. This was indeed hell. Everything was rubble, everyone was dead or dying, and the smoke and flames climbed higher and higher on the horizon. He started to rinse out his mouth, swishing the ashen water around and spitting, until his lungs felt like he could actually draw a breath again.

A figure in black appeared and knelt before him, giving him a cask and cupping his mouth so he could drink. He resisted at first, but soon, the cool clean water filled his stomach and cleared his throat. He spat a bit but then gave the figure a nod of thanks.

"Stay right here, son," the figure told him again. "Can you use a sword?"

Sandor nodded again, and felt a light blade being pressed into his hand.

"Defend the dock," the figure ordered. "Defend the children."

"Children?" He rasped.

The figure turned his head to the group huddled at the very end of the dock, looks of sheer terror upon all their faces. Sandor blinked hard again, and finally, his vision cleared and he could actually see the person in front of him.

Davos fucking Seaworth.

"Got it?" Davos pressed his forehead against Sandor's. "Defend the dock, defend the children."

Sandor stood up on unsteady legs with Davos' help and watched as the poor old man disappeared amongst the hell that was fire, blood, and death. Mounted riders everywhere, Unsullied with their spears, and a fucking dragon flying overhead raining down fire.

All afternoon, Davos returned with more and more children, each time giving him a nod of thanks as he walked past. Sandor would sit on one of the pier posts, trying to gather strength for the fight that was to come.

Finally, one of the Dothraki noticed him and pulled his horse to a stop in front of the dock. He dismounted with his arakh, its wicked curved blade shimmering in the firelight. Sandor tried to stand, but his one leg felt busted again, but he'd be damned to the Seven Hells if he was going to let a Dothraki take him down!

He gritted his teeth and leaned into the other man's charge, easily running the light sword through him. He kicked him down into the water, drawing the attention of more and more riders. Horses, men, and weapons all came, and Sandor took all comers down.

Davos finally showed in the twilight, a babe in his arms, looking around with wide tear-streamed eyes.

"Come now," he told the children, herding them up the gangplank and onto one of the only ships that had been spared by the fire.

"Here," Davos practically threw the babe at Sandor. "I'll need all the help I can get."

Davos pulled anchor, checked the lines, and unwrapped them from their cleats and finally was able to free the ship from all the debris and bodies floating in the water. When they made their way out of the port, an eerie silence had settled amongst the children and two adults.

Slowly, one by one, they turned to look back. Back into the fire. Back into their hell.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a long, quiet ride from the bay, and the winds were with them that night as Davos steered and adjusted in the darkness of the new moon. Even his boots barely made footfalls down the steps as he shucked away his black cloak and covered a few of the children who had fallen asleep.

Sandor had settled against one of the benches, having passed the babe off to one of the older girls. He had long since lost his shirt to wrap the babe in, and the cool breeze of Blackwater Bay felt good on his cooked skin. He dared not look into anything with a reflection, for he knew that what the rest of his body was going to look like: Like his mangled face that he was so ashamed of for almost his whole life.

Funny how things have changed. Funny how things stayed the same. His old home, King's Landing, the very place where he'd sworn to protect, was no more. He hoped the Girl made it out safe, but for all he knew, she was dead with the rest of them.

Davos opened a crate of hard tack and together, they passed the biscuits out to the children, who took it but didn't eat. They were too scared, too traumatized, to do much of anything except huddle together and cry softly.

He briefly remembered when he was a young boy, too traumatized by the fire to do much of anything except cry. His father beat that out of him quick, so he learned to just not cry in front of people. He learned to change his own dressings, hissing from the pain as he peeled away the pus-soaked cloth from his face. He learned to find the flower that lessened the pain, out in the woods by the creek.

Those memories stopped him from yelling at the crying group of children. He gritted his teeth as the cries and sobs finally subsided into hiccups and then the soft sighs of sleep. He stood watch, his leg aching again, but his hand never unclenched his sword.

"A good night for sailing." Davos remarked, coming back down the steps.

"Never did like the water much." He grunted, tearing off a piece of hard tack with his teeth.

"You learn to love it." The older man replied, looking up at the sky. "The salt air, the breeze, the colors… It's always changing. Never the same."

For once, Sandor didn't really have a smart-ass reply, he just chewed silently.

"My home." Davos sighed.

"What's gonna happen to them?" Sandor asked, jerking his head towards the children.

"King's Landing is no more." Davos answered. "I've scraped together what was left of the Ravens to send word to meet at the Dragonstone."

"You don't think that Dragon-bitch is gonna burn that too?"

"No, I don't think that will happen." Davos leaned up against the railings and stretched. "If she dares come close, I'll give her a piece of my mind."

"A piece of your mind?" Sandor snorted. "Wow, remind me to never face you in an open field!"

Davos chuckled a little, grateful for his companion's offbeat sense of humor. Davos then returned to his sentry at the wheel and Sandor turned back towards the children.

Finally, Davos steered them into the safety of the Dragonstone as the dawn was just breaking. There, a whole fleet of beautiful ships awaited them as Sandor and Davos let down the gangplank to help the children. Black sails and golden krakens shimmered in the sunrise, and a beautiful brown-haired woman stepped off the largest ship, taking one of the children into her arms.

"Davos," she said, standing up. "What… What happened? Where's everyone else?"

"We don't know." The old man sighed, looking grey and washed-out in the morning light. "I… I got what I could Yara, but…"

"You did wonderful." She put a hand on his shoulder. "These children will be survivors. The new generation to tell our story."

She then turned around and began commanding her men and women to tend to the children, leaving Sandor and Davos alone on the docks.

"There was a small island we passed on the way here," Sandor informed. "If you're going back, I want to be dropped off there to die."

"Oh no, son," Davos shook his head. "You can't die yet, we still need you."

"NEED ME?!" he retorted. "What good am I? My goose is cooked and so am I."

"We're going back," Davos told him. "We need to help."

"Help? Since when do I want to…"

"NOW." Davos snapped back, pointing at him. "Look, we'll need all the people we can get, save your bitching until after. You either lead, follow, or get the hell outta my way!"

With that, Davos stormed back up the gangplank and paused at the top for just one brief moment. Sandor threw his hands up in frustration and followed like the obedient pup he was going to have to be again.


	3. Chapter 3

So, the last episode KIND OF didn't happen in this world. Everyone deserved better, and hopefully, I can do these guys and gals justice!

They sailed back to a still-smoldering King's Landing, with no dock to speak of anymore. Sandor gingerly slipped off the ship and into the shallows as Davos jumped the rails and landed easily down below. Together, they walked ashore and Sandor gripped his blade as they walked towards what was left of the Red Keep.

The glow from the fires lit the twilight sky, throwing shadows and colors everywhere. He still hated fire, still was scared shitless, but since the fall and the fire after, there was nothing else to lose. He'd had his revenge, but the ironic part was now he was even more burnt and beaten than before.

But, he had a friend. Aside from the Girl, Davos was one of the rare creatures that didn't annoy the fuck out of him. Maybe it was because he understood what it was like to have a part noticeably missing. Or the street-smarts. When he was guarding Joffrey, he'd sometimes see the older man walking along the alleys of Flea Bottom, always alone, never drawing attention from anyone.

He stuck close to his friend, who would tell the survivors to follow him, and soon, a small group had been gathered and were taken back down to the beaches. Davos had a quiet steadfastness about him, never panicking if a tower gave way and collapsed before them, stopping to listen for the cries of the buried.

Davos put every able-bodied person to work, pointing to piles and telling them to dig, salvaging food from the marketplace, and putting Sandor in charge of stockpiling weapons.

Okay, he could do this. He had a job. He had a focus. One thing at a time.

Axes, shields, swords, and spears were all pried from the crisp bodies that lay next to them. He'd been used to the smell since he was just a boy, but the sounds… It sounded as if a roast chicken had been pried apart at its breast, its skin crackling and crunching with each movement.

Maybe save the chicken analogy for another time, there.

Davos was down at the pier, Yara beside him and together, they had the Iron-born and the survivors loading supplies into the small boats on their way to the bigger ships.

"This boat," Davos pointed at one moored nearby. "Fill it with as many weapons as you can. This will be your boat, got that?"

Sandor just nodded and gritted his teeth, dumping his armload and limping away again. It was exhausting and mind-numbing work, but every time he saw Davos at the docks, the older man would send people over to help carry the load.

Suddenly, a strange green mist started to creep in, swirling with the heavy smoke that still lingered everywhere. Something wasn't right, he thought, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to rise.

He looked up, expecting the Dragon-bitch to come riding back and burn everyone, but through the smoke, he only saw ashes flying and falling. Maybe some sort of Wildfire that was spreading?

What now?

One of the children looked down and pointed towards the rubble with a cry. An older man dressed in green was striding forward through the smoke and haze, a group of people behind him.

Davos went forward and embraced the older man in a massive hug.

"Howland," Davos stepped back and smiled. "It's been too long, thank you for coming."

"We received your Raven that was meant for Winterfell." Howland replied, looking around in shock. "I rallied the Crannogmen and we have come to help, and also sent a healthy Raven to finish carrying the message."

Davos and Howland sent fresh men and women to relieve the exhausted soldiers posted at every possible opening at the walls. Howland had thought to bring fresh food, fresh horses, and cloth and medicines to help the wounded.

Howland paused by Sandor as he was just dumping another armload of weapons in his boat. The little man seemed to be studying him, and then began to rummage through his pockets of his green outfit. He produced a bottle and pressed it into Sandor's hand, looking him in the eyes.

"Leave your shirt off," Howland told him. "And rub this into the cracks, it will help with the pain and the healing."

Howland turned to go but stopped. "Funny," he cocked his head. "I hadn't seen the flowers grow for many years until now…"

Sandor uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff, and sure enough, the overpowering smell of the yellow flowers wafted through the air. He pushed the cork back inside and gave Howland a small nod of thanks.


End file.
